Was it really Sabine--his wife!--or could she have a double in the world. Maddening uncertainty was his portion. He must know, he must be certain--and if she were his wife--what then? What did it mean? He could not claim her--she was engaged to Henry, his friend--to whom he had given his word of honor that he would help as much as he could. It was no wonder that he answered Madame Imogen's prattle, crisp and American and amusing though it was, quite at random--his whole attention being upon the pair in front. Sabine also found that she was not hearing a word Henry said, but that the wildest excitement which she had ever known was coursing through her blood. At last she did catch that he was telling her that never had she been more beautiful or had brighter eyes. "This place must suit you even better than Carlsbad," he said. She answered laughingly and led the way toward the gate and so across the causeway and on into her own sitting-room where they would find tea. She supposed afterwards that she had talked sensibly, but never had any recollection of what she had said. The room was looking singularly beautiful with the wonderful coloring of the splendid curtains, and the tapestry and dark wood. And it was a homely place, too, with quantities of book-cases and comfortable chairs for all its vast size. Michael thought there was a faint look of his own room at Arranstoun--and he joined the two who had advanced to one of the huge embrasures of the windows where the tea table was laid--here there were velvet-covered window seats where one could lounge and gaze out at the sea. "What an exquisite place!" he exclaimed. "It reminds me of Arranstoun, does it not you, Henry?--although that is not near the sea." The color deepened in Sabine's cheeks--had she unconsciously made it resemble that place? She did not know, and the suggestion struck her with surprise. Michael had recognized her of course, she saw that, but he was a gentleman and intended to play the game. That was an immense relief. She could allow herself to look at him critically now--not with just the cursory glance she had bestowed upon Henry's friend at first--for he had turned and was talking to Madame Imogen whom Sabine had signed to pour out the tea--she was not sure if her own hand might not have shaken a little and it were wiser to take no risks. He was horribly good-looking--that jumped to the eye--and with a careless, indifferent grace--five years had only matured and increased his attractions. He had "it"--manifesting in every part of him and his atmosphere! A magnetism, a hateful, odious power which she felt, and fiercely resented. He had recovered completely from whatever shock he had felt upon seeing her it would seem! for his face looked absolutely unconcerned now and perfectly at ease.